“These women are lonely. All you have to do is talk to them for ten minutes and charm them a little. Make them feel good about themselves. You'll make their lives better, I swear."
“No,” he says, sternly. I don’t think she’s going to get him to budge on this.
“It’s honestly quite simple. I figure the grocery store can be our supplier. We'll pour the milk into old-fashioned glass bottles. I already ordered you some milk crates and everything. They'll be here tomorrow, in fact. The hat will be here later today, and you have the white button-down shirt and matching pants now too. All I need you to do is a sign a few waivers and you’ll be employed again,” she says.
“I said no, Layla. Thank you for coming up the idea to help me, but I’m not interested in being a milkman.”
I lower the pillow and place it down next to me. It's understandable that Wesley isn't jumping at the idea, considering I now know he once stripped for money, but I wonder if he would be more agreeable if I wasn't sitting here.
“I mean, from the service orders I've received, I'd say you’d receive ten or more a day. It’s good money, Wesley. Plus, no one would really know. Right?"
“That is good money," Wesley says. “But, I can’t.”
“Suit yourself. When you find it’s time you need some spare milk-money, I’m here to help,” Layla offers.
“I’ll keep it in mind, thanks,” Wesley responds.
Guilt is running through my head as I assume Wesley is in rejection mode because of me, and if he’s in need of a paycheck, I don’t want to be the reason he’s having a hard time. “Maybe you should just do it temporarily until you find something else,” I tell him, sounding less than enthusiastic, but trying my hardest to appear sincere. “Or, I could do it, and we can see if there are any men who would like a milk delivered by me?”
Layla’s looking at me like I’m nuts, but I’m willing to bet, I’d get some frequent callers. I don’t know how desperate I would need to be, but it would be a boost for my ego.
“Ha. Funny. I wouldn't trust a man looking for a milk-woman …" Wesley says.
“Well, that's sexist."
“You're sex-y, so, oh well."
“So are you?" I argue.
“Kids, please. Mads, you're about to secure a job for a lactation company, and you could potentially be dating a milkman at the same time. It's like a cow's dreams, and the milky-way to success."
“Breast milk does not come from a cow," I remind Layla. Why do I have to keep reminding people about this scientific fact?
“Sorry, it's anudderlywonderful match made in heaven,” she gleams.
This won’t end until I end it. “They're called nipples, not udders."
“Well, it sounds odd to say you're a nipply wonderful match made in heaven. That's just weird,” Layla continues.
“This is a moo-t point," Wesley quips. “Just stop.”
“Ha!" Layla laughs.
“I guess I have been a bull of sorts—"
“In a va-gina shop," Layla finishes his sentence.
“Guys, if you want to make jokes, awesome, but at least try to understand what you're saying. Bulls produce semen; not milk. That means a bull can't be a milkman of sorts."
“Ew," Layla says. “Why did you say, ‘the' word? That's like calling your vagina moist. Just stop."
“What? You aren't making any sense. It's not even funny. Stick to your online jobs and don't go on the road with your comedy act, please."
“Why are you so sour?" Wesley asks me.
“She's spoiled," Layla quips with an inflection of pride.
I can't think of anything to come back with, which is infuriating. The two of them are on a roll, and my mind is blank. I’m not sure when I lost the upper hand here, but it has happened.
